


Higher Ground

by Sharzdah



Category: Uncut Gems
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Drama, Family Dynamics, More Money More Problems, Post-Canon, Slow Build
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-01
Updated: 2021-02-26
Packaged: 2021-02-27 10:20:04
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 9,307
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22075360
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sharzdah/pseuds/Sharzdah
Summary: The wife. The mistress. The business partner-- They've never made the effort to form a relationship, only knowing of each other from the man who bonded them together. Howie Ratner wasn't the greatest man, but he was going to make it big. In the end, that's all that matters.
Comments: 7
Kudos: 18





	1. Dinah

“I’m sorry for your loss, Mrs. Ratner.”

 _I’m sorry_.

She wonders if he’s being sincere or simply a string of formalities? She wonders how many people have heard those words from the cop sitting across from her. Probably hundreds, thousands.

 _I’m sorry_ —Those words lost their meaning years ago.

What use are those words to her? What can they do? Certainly not bring back her brother. Or that poor excuse of a husband who deep inside, after of all the bullshit, the lies, the women, still held her heart. He was the father of her children, damnit.

They still don’t know.

It’s a Tuesday.

They’re at school.

She will break the news to them later. After they come home, eat their dinners. When they are relaxed, content—fuck, what the hell is she going to say to them? How are they going to react? How is _she_ going to react?

It wasn’t supposed to happen like this.

They were supposed to get a divorce, announce their plans after Passover, deal with the legal bullshit, and move the fuck on. She was ready. Had everything planned to the last minuscule detail.

She sighs and takes a long sip of her now-cold coffee. She feels like spitting it all out and throwing the mug across the room. But she stays put, clears her throat, and carefully places the cut onto the small glass table next to the leather couch she’s sitting on.

She doesn't want to deal with the police. Shit like this doesn't get handled, get settled with the authorities. They'll take one look at her husband's finances and shut the entire operation down.

Fuck, they’ll probably go after her.

She makes a mental note to call her lawyer the moment the cops leave.

“Why did you find him?” Dinah asks in a controlled voice. She was tired of crying, of trembling. She has to be strong. “Them?”

“KM Jewelers. In the Diamond District. The store was registered in your husband’s name—”

“He ran it for over twenty years,” she says, staring aimlessly ahead of her, past the sitting cop, through the large living room windows to the scene in front of the house. The well-manicured lawn. “Twenty-long years.”

Howie was so proud of the business. Probably even more proud of it than his children’s accomplishments—that he would (or could) admit it. He loved the money, the clients. Fuck, he had Kevin Garnett in his shop last week.

“We have reasons to believe it was an armed robbery.”

It wasn’t a robbery.

Dinah wasn’t there. She didn’t know the incidents from yesterday were going to happen. All she knew was that Howie and her dad were attending an auction featuring the ever-so-precious uncut gem, and they were going to have a massive payday. “Everything’s going work out,” he told her the previous morning while leaning in to plant a kiss on his wife’s cheek.

Dinah moved away from her husband’s unwelcomed lips, took a sip of her tea, and rose from the kitchen table, leering at the helpless man before retreating further into the house. She was sick and tired of his bullshit.

It wasn’t a robbery.

Something _deep_ in her heart screams that it was plain, simple murder. The robbery was an afterthought.

Dinah doesn’t have to look up to see that the cop is eyeing her, watching her every move for any clue, any lead. After all, she is the wife. The cops are going to look into her, ask her additional, potentially incriminating questions, check out her finances—did she already take out a claim on Howie’s life insurance? Did she know the goons who had killed her husband and her brother and robbed the living life out of KM? How was she involved? Did her father, Howie’s father-in-law, had something to do with this?

"Do you know of anyone who would want to harm your husband or your brother?"

She frowns. She was under the impression that the cops were under the impression that yesterday’s unfortunate events were due to a robbery. She sits upon the black leather couch (probably not even paid off, she scornfully thinks), crosses her jeans-clad legs and folds her hands over them.

“They were in the jewelry business,” she calmly replies. “High stakes. Money brings problems. Always has.” Her frown deepens. “Howie—he meant well.” She honestly thinks he did. “He thought he had everything under control. Until he didn’t.” She looks up at the cop, straight into his eyes. “He got caught up.”

“And your brother?”

“He had things under control,” Dinah says, glancing to the side. “Good man. Good son. Good brother. Good husband and father.”

She thinks of her sister-in-law, currently upstairs, completely beside herself. She loved Arno, and Arno loved her. At least, loved her enough to keep her in the dark.

“Do you know anyone specific?”

Dinah cannot help but flashback to a few nights ago. During the night of her daughter’s play. When she found Howie, naked in the trunk of their Mercedes. _It was fine_ , she remembers him saying, laughing it off, smiling like being in that stake was perfectly normal. She didn’t even ask, just walked away and returned to the more important things in her life.

Perhaps, she should have asked. Then, she could have given the cops a name.


	2. Demany

He's on the 4 Train. A couple of stops before hitting Brooklyn, leaning against the dirty-ass subway doors with his precious box of Rolexes under his train. He's a bit pissed off at the moment, but he tries his best to mask it. The train's packed, and although New Yorkers are infamous for minding their own damn business while riding the rails, the last thing he needs is a nosy passenger. Worse, a nosy passenger with a phone.

Fuck, he's so mad that he can punch the window behind him in. 

No, he tells himself. That won't solve anything. That won't get him his money, his dues. No, what he has to do is march right up to KHM and demand that piece of shit to stop fucking his employee and get out of his musty-ass office and talk to him like a man.

He calls him whenever his phone gains signal.

No answer.

That rat bastard's probably fucking that chick. Who is fine, by the way, but not worth the trouble. She got drama written all over her. Which, to be honest, explains the what-ever-the-fuck she has with Howie.

Or is it _had_?

Who knows? He doesn't care. What he cares about his reputation. His connections. _His_ _money_. Words spread like wildfire in this business, and one bad rumor can mess him up. He's been spending the last few weeks hanging around KG and his crew. He'd like to keep it that way.

"...Fulton Street."

He snaps out of his thoughts when the conductor's bored voice hits his ears. He'll be in Brooklyn soon. His stomping ground. He'll be away from Howie and KHM. And most of his problems.

"We're being held momentarily."

He curses under his breath.

Of course, they are. These express trains are a joke. Every five seconds, usually at the most inopportune time, the damn train has to step. And judging from how the train doors are still open, they're not moving anything soon.

Brooklyn...

No, fuck it.

He's no pussy. He ain't a coward. Howie was the one who disrespected him over a stupid misunderstanding. How does it look, him fleeing with these goddamn Rolexes? It makes him look like a punk, and Demany ain't a punk.

Far from it.

Grumbling under his breath, he pushes through the aggravated crowd and onto the Fulton Street Subway Platform.

He has some unfinished business to take care of.

* * *

When he’s about a couple of blocks away from KHM, he notices the police cars and the ambulances. And a growing crowd.

He’s curious but doesn’t think much of it. He doesn’t rush to the scene; from the looks of it, no one’s leaving any time. It’ll take him three minutes, tops, to arrive at the scene. He can eavesdrop them.

He calls Howie again.

No answer.

 _Maybe that’s not a bad thing, surprising the man,_ he thinks, glaring some tourists who thought it was a good idea to walk along the sidewalk five-wide. Thanks to their lack of awareness, he now has to wait for the light before crossing the street. There are so many cars, including a couple more police cars, that it’s not worth jay-walking.

He looks straight ahead, past the people, past the food trucks, narrowing his eyes as he realizes that cops are coming out of _that_ building.

The moment the walking sign turns on, he rushes across the street and towards the commotion—

His eyes widen as air leaves his lungs.

 _Fuck_.

* * *

"Hey, yo, my man!" He calls out to a guy, standing several feet away from him, playing with his phone. He’s seen him before during his many trips to this area. "What happened?"

"Looks like a double-murder and a robbery," the man replies before returning his attention to this phone. "Howie's place got hit."

He stops in his tracks and swallows. "Who was…?"

"Waiting to find out just like you are,” the man says, impatient, before bringing his phone to his ear. He then gives Demany an exasperated look, indicating that he’s no longer in the mood for small talk and disruptions.

Demany brushes him off, mumbling a thanks before turning his attention to the commotion. Two bodies are being carried out, which verifies the double-murder, and nothing else. So, only two people hit.

No one would’ve heard a damn thing in that shop. Howie had it locked, secured and soundproof, for the customers. For discretion. To provide his high-priced clients (some of which introduced by yours truly) a piece of mind. No one can get in or out unless Howie says so.

Good for business.

Bad for what-ever happened earlier.

“ _Howie Ratner_ ,” he overhears a cop say into his radio. “ _One shot two the face. Second victim, shot to the face, appears to be…_ ”

Demany nearly drops his box of Rolexes.

He doesn’t know how to feel.

Sad, relieved, angry, disappointed? He doesn’t know. But after the first couple of minutes, he can’t say he’s too surprised. Howie was always a high-stakes roller. Sometimes it worked; during the past couple of it, they never worked. Bad luck seemed to follow him around like a damn stormy cloud—He supposes he feels sorry for the man. He had seemed _so_ invested some much on that rock.

He swallows a couple of times before checking the time on his phone. There’s a sliver of hope that he’ll see a missed call or text from his former “business” partner.

Nothing.

Howie Ratner’s dead.

He didn’t pick up his calls, but he couldn’t.

One shot to the face.

_Who the fuck he did piss off now?_

_Or then?_

He thinks about going to the cops; they’re all standing there. About ten of them, all with puzzled, tired expressions on their faces. He can give him some info. He can help—but then again, he doesn’t know if he wants to. He doesn’t know if Howie would want him to. Ultimately, he decides to stay put, play the role of the curious bystander. He can leave; there’s not much else he needs to see, but he doesn’t garner enough energy to get his legs moving.

At the corner of his eye, he sees one of Howie’s employees, Ida, standing towards the back of the crowd, looking straight up the building, wiping her eyes. He thinks about staying put, but he knows he won’t hear the end of it if he doesn’t at least speak to her. Plus, she probably knows a helluva more about what happened that he ever would.

She drops her hands and looks at him. Surprised and more confused. She wipes the rest of the tears from her eyes, digs out a tissue from her jeans pocket and blows into it.

"I tried calling you..."

Now, he feels bad. "I was on the train," he says. "You know how the signal is."

Ida doesn’t buy his shit (she never did), but she doesn’t challenge him. “Why are you here?” she wonders. She wipes the corner of her eye with insides of her wrist. “I thought you were heading to Brooklyn?”

He glances at the building, then back at Ida. “I wanted to talk to him.”

“Who?” Ida blinks a couple of times when the realization hits her. She clears her throat. “Oh, yes. I heard what happened between you two. Don’t take it personal. He’s under a lot of stress…”

“Was,” he corrects. “He’s dead.”

“Right,” Ida mumbles, eyes downcast. “I just can’t believe—”

“You’re fucking with me, right?” he asks louder than he shoulder, stifling a humorless laugh. Ida had worked for Howie years. She knows the man. “Did you not work for the man? Someone was gonna off him eventually.”

Ida’s gaze shot up. “It doesn’t lessen the hurt.”

“He didn’t give a shit about you.”

“He gave a shit about my job,” is Ida’s strong reply. “What will his family say?”

“No one would care except for his sons.”

Ida sighs. “Don’t say that…”

“You know I’m right.”

His wife hates him. His daughter disregards him. His in-laws tolerate him, and don’t even get him started with whatever drama Howie had with his brother-in-law. That’s why you don’t do business with family, folks. Never works out.

“Who’s the second person?” he then asks. “I heard there were two bodies.”

“Arno, I believe,” Ida replies, a bit detached. “I had seen him inside the shop before I left. And Julia…”

Arno. Howie’s brother-in-law and partner. Another man who was a member of the _Fuck, Howie_ Fan Club. Dead, too. They must have had a falling out after Demany left, forever severing the business relationship between himself and Howie. Arno was connected—everyone knew that. He had goons—everyone knew that, too.

He runs a hand down his face and groans, “Fuck. How do you—”

“Someone passing by in the hallway saw him,” Ida replies quietly.

“ _Fuck_ ,” he says again, shaking his head. He had only seen Howie a couple of hours ago, and—a name comes into his mind. “Julia,” he says to Ida. “You said something about Julia?”

“She was trying to get back into Howie’s good graces,” Ida says blankly. She lets out a humorless chuckle.

Julia’s been trying to get back with Howie ever since The Weekend party blowout—hey, he knew about it. Everyone did. He might not have seen it with his own eyes, but after hearing the details, he knew Howie would be pissed and that Julia would do anything in her power, including show up at KHM, knowing damn well she’s no longer welcomed there, to talk some sense into Howie.

Two peas in a fucking crazy-pod.

Which is why he’s asking for Julia. Because Julia isn’t the kind to leave Howie hanging. Unless, they already made up before and she left before shit went down. He just hopes she wasn’t caught up in the carnage. Yes, he thinks she’s… you know, Julia, but she means well, for the most part. She has that stand-by-your-man-ever-though-he’s-not-yours-thing about her.

"Where's Julia?"

Ida blinks. "What?"

He wants to knock some sense into Ida, but instead, he calmly repeats, "Where's Julia?"

"I-- I don't know,” Ida replies, honest. "I saw her coming into the shop, wanting to talk to Howie, you know..." Her shoulders slump. "I don't know."

"Fuck."

"She's not in there," Ida insists. "Only two bodies were found. I think."

"You think. That's not—” He stops himself before he can say the wrong things. He doesn’t have an issue with Ida. She doesn’t deserve to be the target of his frustration. “Sorry. Ida, I think you should go home. "

Ida’s taken aback. "And leave the shop?"

"The shop's gone," Demany says, watching the woman’s gloom expression from the corner of his eye. "Find a new place to work at. There's a shit ton of jewelry spots around here. You'll get something."


	3. Julia

She finds out about the double homicide and robbery from Twitter during the ride from the casino. She discovers it was Howie and his bastard of a brother-in-law through text messages. All from those who are aware that she knew the jewelry store owner. Worked for the man. Fucked the man—

No, it was more than fucking. What they had was _beautiful_. They were in love. Despite all of the trials and tribulations (her and her naturally flirty ways and him with his wife, kids, and a shit ton of debt—yeah, she knows about the money problems. She’s young, but she ain’t dumb). Despite all of the bullshit and accusations (she didn’t fuck the Weekend. She was just messing with the man. She liked to party and he had money. Of course, she was going to toe the line a bit. But she had said no—you hear me, Howie. _I fucking said no_ ).

Most importantly, they were in love.

And now, he’s gone.

She stares at her phone, frozen in place from disbelief. She reads the messages over and over again, but nothing truly computes in her mind. She had seen the man only hours before. He had seemed so hopeful, despite his injuries and the fact that a couple of goons and his brother were in his story, ready to raise Hell. She could only imagine the elevated expression on his face as she told him the great news. That all of his risks finally paid off. That they were going to an island fuck-knows-where. That he could enjoy his earnings.

But he’s not.

And neither is she because he’s gone and isn’t ever coming back.

“Miss, are you okay?”

It’s only then when she realizes she’s been crying.

* * *

Over one million dollars in her possession and she has nowhere to go.

Fucking wonderful.

She thinks about returning to the Mohegan Sun. Shack up with that rich old guy whose name she keeps on forgetting. For a couple of days, weeks even, until things calmed the hell down. He is far from the vicinity of his type, but he thinks there’s something between them. And he has money.

No, she decides, running away isn’t going to solve anything. The men who killed Howie (those mob guys, she bets, old enough to be grandpas, thinking it’s still the motherfucking glory days) know about her. They had sent one of their goons after her. They won’t stop until she’s down. She’s a target. She ran away with money and bet it all with Howie’s assistance. Thankfully, the bet worked out in the end. Unfortunately, those mob guys probably think of the money is there.

Now, as she thinks about it…

No. Mohegan Sun definitely won’t work. It’s such an obvious hiding place. She knows it, the mobsters know it. The place may be huge, but the guys are going to search every nook and cranny in that casino until they find her. Until they hurt her. Going to Mohegan Sun would be too obvious.

But, New York—

New York makes sense because it doesn’t make sense. Why return to the scene of the crime and all that drama? Because no one would expect her to be there.

* * *

She has 1.2 million dollars in her possession. She’s not going to keep it all, no matter how enticing the idea sounds. No, she’s going to do right. Make it right. As right as she can possibly make it. Because karma is a bitch.

And the fact that’s not dead thanks some mobster means that she’s on karma’s good side now. She’d like to keep it that way, thank you.

So, this is what’s going to happen: split the money in three’s. 400 grand for her because she fucking deserves it. 400 grand for the Ratner family (okay, take one hundred grand from her stash and give it to the family because damn it, it’s not like she’s the one married with three kids and a dead man of the house. Julia may have loved Howie, still does, but he did break a few—many—of his vows). And the rest can go to his debts. Four hundred thousand dollars _should_ do it.

She hopes.

She prays.

No, fuck that. It’s going to work.

* * *

This wasn’t a part of the original plan.

Nowhere near the vicinity.

The rational side of her tells her to get the hell out of here. She has no business standing in front of the love of her life’s family home. Hell, she shouldn’t even be on Long Island. She knows she’s not welcomed. Dinah, despite never meeting her in person, despises her. The children don’t know anything about her. She should leave.

But she doesn’t. She figures that she should go forward with her new plan since she’s already here. She isn’t going to chicken out.

She rings the doorbell.

Again, and again, until she can hear loud grumblings from the other side. She stands up tall, shoulders pushed back and tightens the grip on the handle of the money bag, anticipating Dinah’s action.

Dinah opens the door and curses, completely taken aback by the woman standing on her doorstep. She stares at the other woman, eyes wide looking tired stressed, surprised and a bit pissed off. “And what the _fuck_ are you doing here?” she sneers.

Julia clears her throat. At least, Dinah isn’t slamming the door in her door just this yet. That, friends, is what she calls progress. “I think we need to talk.”

“No, I think you need to get the hell out of here before I call the cops on your—”

“Look, I know you don’t—”

“ _Leave_.”

Dinah isn’t fucking around. She may not be the biggest woman, but Julia has a sinking feeling that she’s slugged a few people in her lifetime. Julia can hold her own, but this isn’t the time for fighting. This isn’t goddamn Jerry Springer.

So, Julia tries again by going straight to the point, “I have the money,” she says, holding up the bag. “Here. 500 large. Just for you.” And when Dinah doesn’t reply. “I wasn’t going to—but… I love Howie, but I think he owed you.”

“Where’s this from?” Dinah asks. She tries to hide her shock but gives up after a few seconds. Her nose wrinkles. “Another loan?”

“A bet that worked.” 

Dinah brings a hand to her mouth, glancing between the bag and the other woman. Gripping the handle of the door, it appears that she’s not going to accept the olive branch. But then she relaxes, glances at the bag one last time, and says, “Get in here.”


	4. Dinah

Money talks.

God, does it talk.

If it weren’t for the money, hundreds of thousands of dollars, then Dinah would have never invited that _woman_ into her home. Her safe house. But money talks; it forces her to swallow down her pride, her anger, her pettiness, and allows her just to listen to that… harlot.

No, her name is Julia. She’s going to be known as Julia for now on. Or at least, until this visit is over. And it will be over; she gives it thirty minutes top. She doesn’t think she can bear being in that woman’s presence for more than that. Thirty minutes is fine. Thirty minutes is more than enough time to get whatever point across. 

She offers Julia a drink because she was raised the right way. Hospitality is important; it separates the civilized from the not—She’s not offended when Julia forgoes the offer. Good, she doesn’t want to waste any good wine on that woman.

_Four hundred thousand dollars._

Do you know what she can _do_ with that money?

She could move off this island, leave New York, the Tri-state area, the northeast and travel, fuck, she doesn’t know, somewhere that’s not _here_. Her children will be fine. The rest of her family, what’s left of it, will get over it.

Dinah pours herself a glass of wine. This upcoming conversation calls for wine. She can even go for something stronger, that Smirnoff is calling her name, but she wants to be level-headed in front of that woman. She doesn’t want to show any weakness or lash out due to being inebriated. She’s a classy woman, unlike _her_.

“Are you sure?” she asks.

Julia politely declines and sits on the couch. She’s cautious, a bit apprehensive. Good, that’s what Dinah wants. She wants that woman to know that she’s only here because of the money. “You have a nice home,” the younger woman adds, eyes roaming around the ornate living room.

Dinah snorts lightly and takes a long sip of her drink, preparing herself for a long thirty minutes. “You heard about what happened?”

“That’s why I’m here.”

Dinah takes a seat. She crosses her arms and just stares at the other woman. She’s pretty, she has it give her that. She can see why Howie was all over her. There’s a wild, stupid side to her that makes men like Howie go fucking crazy. She snorts again and downs half her drink. She places the glasses aside, and with her arms crossed, she gets straight to the point, “What happened to him?”

Julia blinks a couple of times, taken aback by the accusatory tone. Dinah doesn’t give a damn. There’s a reason why Julia’s here, and it can’t only be about the money. Howie hasn’t been dead for more than a day, and now, his mistress decides to visit? No, something’s up.

The other woman gulps a couple of times. “I don’t know.”

Dinah lets out a humorless laugh, startling Julia. “You don’t know?”

“When I left, he was alive.”

Dinah raises an eyebrow. “The cops said it was a bullet to the face that did him in,” she then says with a sigh. “My brother, one bullet, did him in, too.” She locks eyes with Julia. “Did you see him, too?”

Julia brings her eyebrows together, seemingly confused. For a moment, she looks like an innocent child, but Dina refuses to let her guard down. “No.”

“No,” Dinah repeats with a curt nod. “Fuck.”

“This situation is fucking nuts,” Julia agrees. “Look, I don’t know anything. Howie wanted me to bet on the Celtics game. He said he wanted to prove a point. I knew he owed some people some money, but…”

Dinah shakes her head. Of course, Howie owed someone money. He _always_ did, but, “Why would Arno be there?”

Julia shrugs.

“Does anyone know you’re here?”

Julia shakes her head.

“You should’ve not come here,” Dinah says. She thinks of her children; her babies. If Howie made a bet to prove a point, then the money in Julia’s bag belonged to someone else. Fuck. They’ll be after Julia. “Where did you get the money?”

“The casino,” Julia says, clutching the bag. “The Mohegan Sun.”

“Why did you leave?”

“People were looking for me.”

“Recognize them?”

Julia shakes her head. “Mobs-guys.”

“Always are,” Dinah mumbles. She stands up and begins to pace around the living room, forehead wrinkled in deep thought. “The cops say was a robbery….”

“It wasn't.”

Dinah raises an eyebrow. “You sound so sure of yourself,” she remarks, eyeing the woman with suspicion. “I thought you didn’t know anything.”

“I don’t,” Julia maintains, and then amends, “Not too much. I know he was in trouble.”

Dinah nods. “That’s what I think, too.” She sighs. “Assume they’re still looking for you?”

Julia nods.

“That’s a problem.”

“No, shit.”

Dinah sits back down. “Give me the money,” she implores. “My portion—that’s what you’ve come here for, right?” She asks and then scoffs at Julia’s widened eyes. She patiently waits for her portion of the stash. All four hundred grand. The money looks so beautiful, smells _so_ lovely. “I don’t like you,” she admits, but it shouldn’t be a surprise. “I don’t think I ever will….” She picks up a bundle of hundreds. “But thank you for the money. You didn’t have to do this.”

Julia swallows. “Howie…” she trails off with a sigh. “He cared about you. He made mistakes. Fucked up a bunch of times, but he did love you and the kids. I was just—”

Dinah puts up a hand, silencing the other woman. “It’s not your place to make excuses for him,” she says. “He’s made his bed, and now, he lays in it.”

“He lays on a cold table in the morgue,” Julia says. “Not a bed…" She swallows. "So, what now?”

Dinah shrugs and pushes her stash as far across the couch as possible without standing up. “I don’t know about you, but I’d like to find those motherfuckers who killed the father of my children before they find us,” she says, suddenly determined. She’s only thought of the idea a few seconds before. “They want their money, and they’re not going to stop until they get it.”

“Are we giving it to them?”

Dinah lets out another humorless laugh. “Fuck, no.”


	5. Demany

He doesn’t know what to do.

Fuck, that was a goddamn lie. He knows what to do. Well, that he _should_ do. But it is what he wants to do? What believes is the right thing? What does that even mean?

In his experience, doing the right things means getting labeled as a snitch or a cap in the head—Which one’s worse or better? It depends. No one wants to die. But no one wants to be labeled a snitch.

He _should_ go the cops. Tell them about his suspicions on what happened at that jewelry spot. About Howie’s ties with those glorified assholes. About the debts. About KG—but he ain’t stupid. The moment he opens his mouth, he’s getting marked as a suspect.

Marked as a snitch.

He doesn’t know which one is worse.

What he wants to do is find Julia.

He calls her again when he finally arrives in Brooklyn.

Nothing.

The next day, he checks her social media pages. She practically lives on Twitter and Instagram—nothing from today except for cheesy-ass quote about fighting for a soulmate. He hopes she didn’t mean Howie.

It’s concerning, but Demany has to think positive. Julia’s Julia. She’s going to drop off the face of the planet quietly. Even if someone managed to get her, like, for instance, the same guys who got to Howie, she’s going to leave a mark.

He’s looking for her because if there’s anyone who would know what happened at KHM, it’s her. According to Ida, she was there entirely that afternoon. She probably saw the killers. They probably saw or heard of her. If she—

He askes himself what he cares so much. He has no obligation towards her.

He calls again.

No answer.

Again.

_Fuck_.

* * *

He rings the doorbell.

He’s slightly over fifty-percent sure that it’ll be answered.

This isn’t a part of the plan. The initial plan consisted of stopping by the place Howie sort-of purchased for his chick on the side.

But he’s here.

When the door opens, he freezes. Mostly out of shock because there’s Howie’s window, Dinah, standing under the threshold of her front door with her arms tightly crossed. She’s just as shocked to see if his face, but she doesn’t send him on his way. She does a once-over and then drops her arms. “It’s been a while,” she says.

Demany nods.

“What are you doing here?”

He’s kinda known of her for years. He had met her way back, through Howie of course. They had exchanged the usually pleasantry-bullshit, talked a bit about Howie, the good things only. Howie could be a hothead, and this album release party wasn’t the place to make a scene—One look, and he knew that the couple’s marriage was fucked up. Dinah with her forced smile. Howie with his attempt to be funny and command his wife’s attention—it would’ve been so funny if it wasn’t so fucking sad. Pathetic.

He’s not friends with Dinah, but he knows her enough. He knows where she lives (obviously) about the children (Howie used to talk about them, lovingly over some hard drinks—he wonders why the man couldn’t express himself without Henny’s assistance). He knows she hates Howie for all the bullshit he’s put her through, but she’s keeping a façade because she has to. It makes life easier.

In some way, he supposes, he understands. He’s living a façade, himself, because, in his eyes, that’s the only way he can survive.

“I’m sorry,” he says. He could’ve been more… he doesn’t know... _him_. He has a persona that he’s perfected for years. Uses it all the time, perfectly internalizes it. But he’s standing in front of a woman who’s just lost her husband and her brother in a very unnatural matter. He can drop his act for a second. And anyway, it’s only the two of them.

Dinah lifts an eyebrow. “For?” Then her eyes widen. She knows what he’s talking about. She lets out a sigh and then looks behind the newcomer, checking the surroundings. He turns around to do the same. No one was around. It’s one of those small neighborhoods. Nothing much will happen until the kids come home—which, based on the time on his phone—won’t be for another couple of hours.

He doesn’t plan on staying that long.

Actually, he plans on leaning right now, but Dinah jerks her head in the direction of the inside of her home. Before he can politely protest, she tells him, “We should talk.”

Now, what’s he going to do with that? Those were some dangerous words.

He clears his throat, glances behind him (no one is around), and gives a nonchalant shrug. “Yeah, why not?”

Dinah forces a smile and lets him in.

* * *

“You’re not dead.”

He doesn’t know he should be more shocked about—the fact that Julia’s not swimming with the fishes or the fact that she’s sitting right on the Ratners’ couch, surfing through her phone. She’s not her usual crazy self, but she looks fine.

Julia glances up from her phone but doesn’t provide an answer. Instead, she sucks her teeth, rolling her eyes before finishing her wine. She considers pouring another glass but changes her mind at the last second.

Dinah glances at the younger woman, eyebrow raised. “Is she supposed to be?” she asks. The question shouldn’t mean much, but he knows Dinah and Dinah is one passive-aggressive chick. He wouldn’t be surprised if she wanted Julia dead. But both women are here, sipping on some wine. Seem to be cordial so…maybe Dinah’s feeling a lot less homicidal.

Not that Demany gives a damn.

He brushes past Dinah’s question. “Why are you here?” he asks. He tries not to sound too suspicious, but both women immediately pick up the confusion in his voice.

Dina lets out a snort.

Julia raises an eyebrow and tosses her phone aside. “I should be asking you the same thing.”

So, she’s not going to give him a straight answer.

And from the looks of it, neither is Dinah.

Why do they both gotta be so damn difficult?

He huffs and looks around the living room—simple, but he can tell a lot of money was invested in it. He’s buying some time so he can come up with a damn good response. His focus eventually lands on the small table on the other side of the couch.

He immediately notices the bag and the money but doesn’t say anything. That’s dirty money; he’s sure about it. Probably has something to do with Howie and the mess he found himself in before taking a hit to the face. The money’s enticing (ain’t it always?), but for the moment, it’s not worth it. The less involvement he has with it, the better (and the longer) he lives.

He clears this throat. “It’s not my business, but I gotta ask—”

“We’ve come to an understanding,” Dinah says in a smooth voice. She wants to smirk but makes an effort to keep her expression neutral.

He doesn’t know how to feel about that. Sure, it’s nice to see that maybe the two women are on the same page. But both women are stubborn, liked when things go their way… he wonders what deal had to be made for them to be not to be tearing at each other's throats.

He looks at Julia. Her arms are crossed with a slight frown on her face. She occasionally glances at the stash, but ultimately remains put. So, she’s not a fan of this “understanding”; probably had to give something up.

“I don’t want to know,” Demany says. Sure, he’s curious, but he doesn’t want to know. He doesn’t want to stay here. All he wanted was to give Dinah his condolences and go on his way. Initially to search for Julia, who’s already here.

“Good,” Dinah says in a curt voice that reminds him of Howie after he’s been told that a deal hasn’t gone through.

Demany should just get the fuck out of here, he believes. He’s found Julia, who’s unharmed—wonderful. Now, he can bring his behind back to his stomping ground and leave this batshit situation behind him. But—

A blaring ringtone stops his thoughts.

He glances at his phone. Fuck, it’s Marcus. One of the many people in KG’s entourage. His main conduit to the sports superstar. He doesn’t want to pick up the phone (it’s not the fucking time), but he doesn’t want to brush off the man. He was cool with KG, but he’s expendable. He knows it.

He accepts it. 

“Yo, my man, what’s up?” he answers. He looks at Julia and Dinah, who are both staring at him, curious. He thinks about stepping outside, but with his luck, someone will roll up in front of the house, take some pictures… he doesn’t want to deal with that.

It turns out that KG wants some answers. He’s found out about what happened at KMH. Of course, he did. It’s all over the news, and it’s even more all over social media. KG’s concerned, Marcus tells him, should he be concerned?

Fuck, Demany doesn’t know. He’s trying to figure shit out himself. He ends up telling Marcus that he’ll keep in, and in turn, KG posted if he finds anything out and hangs up the phone.

“That opal,” Dinah says, watching Demany pocket his phone. “That’s the one Howie kept on talking about, isn’t it?”

“It has nothing to do with—"

Julia looks straight into Demany’ eyes and bristles. “Of course, it does,” she says. “That opal was supposed to be Howie’s meal ticket. One million dollars, that was how much it supposed to be worth. Howie was banking on it.”

“And now he’s gone,” Julia quietly says.

“And the goddamn money wants that money,” Dinah says sharply. “All _one point two million_ of it _._ ”

Demany’s eyes widen. He takes a second to process the information… a glance at the entrance. He sighs and eventually says, “So, are you gonna give them what they… want?”

“They killed Howie!” Julia replies, obviously snapping out of her saddened state as she leaps out off the couch. She has that fire in her eyes—Oh shit, the batshit chick is back.

He turns his attention to the other woman. She also has a fire in her eyes, but somehow it’s more sinister. “They killed my brother,” she says, taking a step closer to the man. “What the fuck do you think?”

Oh.

He knows what this is.

“ _No_ ,” he says hotly, shaking his shaking, taking a couple of steps back. “Hell no. Like fuck you two gonna drag me into some goddamn revenge plot. I know what happens at the end of the movie; the black man always gets fucked over.”

Dinah and Julia share a glance and sigh.

Julia is the next one to speak. She walks in Demany’s direction, never once breaking eye contact. “I know you and Howie had your issues. I know he sort of fucked you over, but you two were partners, right? That whole KG deal… that wasn’t just him; that was you, too—”

“Don’t give me that shit, Julia.”

“I’m not giving you any shit, Demany,” Julia contends. There’s more fire in her eyes. “I’m giving you the truth. Do you think they’re gonna stop with Dinah and me? You were a part of the business. They’re fucking coming after all of us.”

“Don’t you want to be one step ahead of them?” Dinah asks, tilting her head, staring at the man with a look, with a slow-forming smirk... as if she already knows the answer.

Demany holds his breath.

He’s fucked.


	6. Julia

Contrary to what some like to think, there’s more to Julia than being a side piece, a (former) jewelry store owner, and an aspiring millionaire.

She knows some shit. She knows some people. She knows how to get around. How do you think she managed to walk the streets of Manhattan after spending most of her life in a town with one goddamn traffic light?

Now, if only Demany and Dinah understand that fact, things would be going swimmingly right now. _It’s_ _no_ _biggie_ , she tells herself as she aimlessly inspected her bare nails. She can’t remember the last time she had then unpolished or un-acrylic.

She needs to get done; she feels so naked without the color but figures she needs to save all of her money. Just in case. But damn, some neon pink would like nice…

_Anyway_ , what she’s trying to say is that she has a plan. Well, a part of a plan. And it certainly doesn’t consist of sitting in an old-ass Ford Focus parked blocks away from KHM with Demany in the driver seat, both waiting for Dinah to finally make a fucking appearance.

She’s twenty minutes late.

Julia sighs. She doesn’t even know where they need to stop by KMH. According to Dinah’s police-friend, all of the money’s gone, all of the jewelry is gone, and the only electronic thing left behind is a smashed-in television and an ancient computer with an equally-ancient telephone.

Wait—

That’s not necessarily true.

A recognizable song playing on the radio distracts Julia from her thoughts. _The_ _Hills_. It's the only song she likes by the artist, despite what she had whispered into his ear that night. 

That night was a complete mess. All because, “He had some good candy,” she says to herself, wrinkling her nose. Fuck that guy. If it weren’t for him, and that damn party, and that damn cocaine, she would’ve spent more time with Howie before he left the world.

Fuck herself, to be honest.

“Who? _Him_?” Before Julia can say anything, Demany rolls his shoulders, sits up in his seat, and goes to lower the radio volume. “I hate this damn song,” he grumbles.

It’s only then when Julia realizes that she’s been talking aloud and woke Demany up from his light nap. Not exactly the best conversation starter, but it’s too late to back out now.

Julia sighs. “That was the only reason why I was up all over him that night,” she explains though she doesn’t understand why. She doesn’t need to give Demany an explanation. “You know that album release party from weeks ago? You were there.”

Demany nods; he knows what she’s talking about. He glances out the window before looking at Julia with a mischievous glint in his eye. “You sure you didn’t fuck him?”

Julia gives him the finger and rolls her eyes. “Despite what you wanna think, I stick to one man at one time.”

“And decided not to bounce someone with a helluva lot more money?” Demany asks, seemingly genuinely curious. “If you played your cards right, Abel would’ve flown you out to Dubai.”

Julia rolls her eyes. She doesn’t need Dubai; she had plans to go to an island with the game winnings. If things had ended better for Howie. “I had a man,” she reminds Demany.

“Yeah, another woman’s man.”

“If you’re trying to make me feel bad, then you’re wasting your time. That shit’s in the past anyway, the moment Howie caught that bullet.”

“Keep telling yourself that.”

“Oh, fuck you.”

“Ain’t worth the drama.”

Julia has a retort ready but then stops to chuckle under her breath. The banter. It’s their conversations lasted more than a couple of minutes. Except for now. Funny it happens when the one person linking them together was no longer here.

She takes out her phone and aimlessly searches through it. There are a few text messages from some maybe-friends. All about some party that night in SOHO. “Whatever.”

Demany shakes his head and laughs. He knows he won this round but gratefully doesn’t gloat about it. Instead, he leans back in the seat, glancing at the rearview mirror. “What did you see him in?”

Julia looks up from her phone and cocks an eyebrow. “What’s the supposed to mean?”

Demany shrugs. “Look, you’re you, but you ain’t ugly,” he says. “You could’ve gotten with any other guy, but you chose a married, greasy-ass man with about a thousand guys after him.”

“He wasn’t a greasy-ass,” Julia maintains. He had good hygiene. Always had the best cologne. Often scaled-down the sleaziness when around her. “He could’ve worked on his attire, but he wasn’t that bad.” She frowns at Demany’s incredulous expression. “What? I’m serious.”

“You didn’t answer my question.”

No, she didn’t.

“I like to live my life on the fast-line, and so did he,” Julia eventually says. “He could keep up with me and didn’t judge… anything. A man like that’s not easy to find.” She tilts her head. “Isn’t that why you worked with him?”

Demany snorts. “I worked with him because he was a way to make some money. I bring him the stars. He sells them some bullshit jewelry, and I get a cut.”

“You could’ve gone to any other jeweler, but you decided to go to him,” Julia points out, mouth curving at the flash of aggravation on the man’s face. She then sighs, dropping her small. “Perhaps I should’ve avoided to the whole marriage-shit.”

“Ya think?”

Julia’s opinion on marriage wavers hour-to-hour, but a part of her… Dinah’s a hard-ass, but she doesn’t deserve this. Howie didn’t either. Julia. Yeah, better judgment should’ve been used, but, “He was going to divorce her.”

Fuck, she sounds so pathetic.

Demany seems to think so well, as well. “That’s what they always say.” He shakes his head. “But in the end, you ain’t the wife. You ain’t on the will.”

“Even if he had one, he wasn’t worth shit,” Julia argues, though she gets the point. Legally, she never mattered to him. She sits up in the seat, adding, “Dinah gotta deal with the debt-collectors, not me.”

“I guess hoes do have the last laugh.”

“It’s called getting some cake and eating it, too,” Julia points out. She ignores the “hoes” comment. “Look, I wasn’t trying to marry the guy. Deal with an angry ex-wife. A bunch of kids that I didn’t give birth to? Fuck that.”

“You got a point,” Demany says with a nod. He opens his mouth to say more, but then the third member of their team appears outside of his car. Dressed to the nines as usual with a scowl on her face.

Julia forces a smile and waves, which doesn’t appear to ease the widow’s mood. Julia doesn’t take it personal, though. Dinah has every right to be aggravated.

“Dinah,” Demany acknowledges in a smooth voice. Julia can picture him wearing a smirk; the kind that makes the ladies go wild.

Dinah raises an eyebrow before lighting up a cigarette. She takes a couple of drag, looks in both directions before taking a deep breath. The widow then pulls out a pair of keys from her coat pocket and jingles them. “So, are we going to sit here, or do you want to go to the scene of the crime?”

* * *

“We can’t be here all day,” Dinah mutters as she opens each of the three locks. This is the first door leading to the mantrap. And there then there’s another one. “I have to pick up the kids in an hour.”

Oh yeah, the children. Damn, Julia can only imagine how they’re feeling. She flashes back to the memory of her mother and then her father. Both dead under very different circumstances. She clears her throat and sincerely asks, “How they holding up?

Demany shoots her a quick, alarmed look.

“ _None_ _of_ _your_ _damn_ _business_ ,” Dinah snaps; her voice is so icy that even Demany shudders. Dinah holds a steady gaze with Julia, almost challenging her to say something. Julia’s not dumb; she isn’t saying a damn thing. The eye contact lasts for several seconds before Dinah releases a sigh that almost sounds apologetic. “Their father and uncle are dead,” she quietly says.

Julia and Demany share a look, and both silently decide not to pursue the topic. They stand inside the mantrap, waiting for Dinah to open the final door leading them into the store and enter when given explicit permission.

As Julia stands in the middle of the room, it finally hits her. This is the first time she’s been at the store since that fateful day. It’s amazing how much things have changed.

The store, to be frank, looks like shit. Everything’s broken, from the glass cabinets, the furniture, and even the mounted television that with no doubt played the Celtics game that Howie was banking on. All of the expensive pieces were gone, even the diamond-encrusted Furby that Julia secretly adored.

“ _Shit_ ,” Demany breathes, kneeling to the ground. His gaze’s one the taped outline of the victims. There’s still blood, but it’s obvious that someone made an effort to clean most of it up.

Dinah takes a deep breath. “Everything’s gone,” she says. “It looks like a damn robbery.”

“It wasn’t,” Julia reminds her.

Dinah rolls her eyes. “I know _that_.”

Demany gives Julia that same alarmed look.

He must know something that she doesn’t.

Julia looks up at the damaged television before turning to Dinah and asking, “Are we even allowed to be here?”

Because this place still looks like an active crime scene. Even weeks after the fact.

“I’m the wife,” Dinah declares. It’s the way she says it that unnerves Julia. The widow is making the point. _She’s_ the wife. Not Julia. “I know some people at the department. Just don’t mess anything up. Find whatever is useful before the owners clean up this place.”

“Owners?” Demany says. “Isn’t that you?”

“Howie paid rent to this place,” Dinah says. “He owned the company, but not the office. The owner’s nice enough to give us a month. Felt bad about what happened.”

* * *

A couple of minutes pass, and Julia excuses herself, leaving Demany and Dinah in the main room as she heads towards Howie’s office. “Interesting that they didn’t come back here,” she remarks to no one in particular. Everything’s in order. Untouched. Even the half-filled cup of coffee.

_Dark_ _roast_. _Four_ _sugars_ _and_ _cream_ , she thinks with a fond smile.

She sits behind the desk, where Howie would spend hours talking on the phone, making deals and appraisals. Talking about that damned precious Ethiopian opal. Where he had his hopes and dreams… they were supposed to be on an island right now, enjoying the spoils of a well-placed bet.

She deeply inhales as she tries to hold back the tears. It’s been some time since Howie’s death, and it still feels like it happened hours ago. She looks to the left at the row of windows. It’s the middle one she remembers clearly. The one Howie stood at, holding the bag of money for the bet. Julia was on the other side, holding her hand out.

She closes her eyes and sighs before directing her attention to the strewn paper and receipts in front of her. She sifts through each piece—nothing of note.

“Find anything?”

Julia finds Dinah standing under the office threshold, arms crossed, as her eyes roam around the small room. The widow drops her arms and takes a step forward. “I’ve always hated this room,” she remarks. “Told Howie numerous times. We got a good house. You have a good business. Why couldn’t you invest in a better office?”

Julia shrugs before pushing back the chair. She stands up to peer at the desk phone. There were forty-five messages, all inaccessible. She askes Dinah about it and receives a shrug. “Should’ve asked for the passcode,” Julia mumbles under her breath.

“I doubt it would’ve mattered,” Dinah says. “He’d give you the passcode and then change it the next second.”

Julia can’t dispute that.

She continues searching around the desk, inside and out, until she finds what she’s looking for. Tapes. She removes one from the recorder and holds it up with a smile. Why it’s still here, she has no idea. The police should’ve collected this weeks ago, but then again, the recorder’s hidden.

Dinah eyes the tape, seemingly surprised. “The cops took the tapes from the recorder behind one of the cabinets,” she says. “They said they weren’t able to…”

“But this will,” Julia maintains. She then turns around and opens the door to a large metal closet, revealing a VCR and a small TV. After calling Demany in, she insets the tape and waits.

“You’re smarter than you look,” Dinah remarks, recrossing her arms. It’s not a compliment, but Julia would never expect one from the woman.

Julia fast-forwards the video to the moment she enters the picture, arguing with Howie about what happened at The Weeknd party. It’s awkward; she’s not going to lie, especially with the looks she knows she's receiving from Demany and Dinah.

She fast-forwards the video even more, past the moment she and Howie sort-of made up and when Arno and two other men made an appearance. And the animated argument that followed.

Dinah brings her eyebrows together and shakes her head. “This doesn’t make any sense…”

She’s genuinely confused, which genuinely confuses Julia and Demany. Well, that’s awkward, Julia can’t help but think. Dinah, the woman who seems to know everything was unaware of the drama between her brother and husband.

Demany looks at the video and then at Dinah, “Uh, what do you mean?”

“Those guys,” Dinah says. “They worked with Arno…” She slowly brings a hand to herself as she watches on. To the moment the three men were let back into the main room, to the moment Howie was shot. And then Arno.

And then the place was ransacked. 

“I think the money was for him,” Julia quietly realizes as she connects the dots. It’s starting to make sense. “I heard they had a falling out.” She slowly faces the stunned and horrified Dinah. “Hey, your brother. Was he a part of a—”

“ _No_ ,” Dinah hotly replies. “He was a businessman.”

Demany shares a look with Julia before trying, “Dinah—"

“No!’ Dinah exclaims, turning around. She shakes her head and storms out of the office with Demany and Julia following in tow. “ _Fuck_ _you_! Arno was a good man! He did not _work_ for the mob.”

“Considering that literal mobsters were chasing me around at Mohegan Sun…” Julia trails off as Dinah her a murderous look. She puts up her hands and backs off. She’s not in the mood for an unnecessary brawl in the middle of a crime scene.

She supposes she would save _these_ _hands_ for those who deserve them the best.


End file.
